


Staring Gets You Somewhere

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Lawyer Draco Malfoy, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Snark, pre-porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5254493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's spent a good part of his life staring/not-staring at Potter. Of course, he never had a reason to think that Potter was looking back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring Gets You Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Andie (mangoapplepie) to celebrate her passing of the bar exam. Great job, love! <3 I tried to write Lawyer Draco, I really did. Except I don't actually know much about law, so it ended up being less about that and more about our silly boys bantering. Well, so it goes. (:

Draco is having a perfectly lovely discussion with Granger about whether or not the new amendment to the wand registration law that’s just been passed will have any effect on the Freedom of Magical History petition that they’ve been working on for the past half year. One wouldn’t think so, but Wizarding Law is intricate (and unnecessarily convoluted, Granger always adds). An important part of their job is to diligently consider the overlap.

But lo and behold, Potter walks into their office, and their perfectly lovely discussion is pushed aside in favor of “Oh Harry! Where’d that scratch come from!” (That was Granger, of course. Not Draco. Draco doesn’t give a damn about Potter’s scratches. Potter’s an Auror; he’s bound to get banged up in the field, isn’t he?)

Potter laughs sheepishly and says that it’s nothing, during which Draco takes the time to actually look at the scratch out of the corner of his eye. He recoils subsequently; the scratch is more of a gash, and it really looks like it needs medical attention—is that a bit of green mixed into the blood? How disgusting! He turns away and shuffles his paperwork, trying to pretend he’s not eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Harry, I’m not going to be cross with you if you’re late for lunch because of a field injury. Just send me a memo if you’re that worried!”

“But I hate memos,” Potter grumbles.

“That’s no excuse for not going to see the mediwitch right away!”

“I told you, it’s fine…” Potter trails off, and his voice has changed from sounding whiny to sounding weak. Draco sneaks a quick glance while shoving an old file into his drawer. Potter looks dizzy. Ugh, he better not be tracking curse residue or something into the office. How uncouth.

“Look, Harry—all right, just sit down, okay? I’m going to get the mediwitch. And this would have all been avoided if you just went to the medical center first, I’ll have you know!” Granger huffs and bustles out the door, and Draco can _hear_ her eyeroll.

He listens to Potter as the man lands with a thump in Granger’s desk chair. Well, fuck, they’re alone in the room together now, aren’t they? Sure, whatever, Potter’s not so bad (except for his whininess and stupid hair and overall nauseating wholesomeness, of course). But that doesn’t mean that Draco wants to be around him more than necessary. They see a lot of each other as it is, seeing as Granger’s been Draco’s partner for just over two years now.

Draco realizes that he may have to make _small talk_ with Potter and is briefly horrified. Maybe they can just… _not._ Yes, that would be preferable.

He counts away the silence in tandem with the ticking of the clock that’s on the wall. He gets to two hundred and seventy before Potter opens his mouth.

“Does she do that to you often?”

Draco looks up slowly, not quite meeting Potter’s eyes. He looks at Potter’s arm instead—it’s relatively innocent in this whole affair, isn’t it? Not offensive, like the gash in his cheek—and raises an eyebrow. “What, does she go to call the mediwitch? No, because I know how to take care of myself,” he quips.

Potter snorts, and how dare he think Draco funny? Funny was not what Draco had been going for. “No, I meant the whole ‘I told you so’ thing.”

Ah. That. Well, yes, actually. “A bit,” he shrugs noncommittally.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘Mione. But she’s done that since we were kids, and it’s still rather annoying, honestly,” Potter rambles on.

“I hate to break it to you, Potter, but Granger’s usually right, even if I don’t feel like admitting to it at the time.”

There’s a silence, and Draco finally looks up at Potter’s face to find the man gaping at him. Over what—his compliment to his partner? He wants to roll his eyes, but now he’s too caught up in looking at Potter to bother with it.

He has to admit—and if anyone ever found out about this, he would probably have to kill them—but Potter is… not bad to look at. At all. Potter’s quite fit, actually, and it’s only taken several years of pulling green-eyed black-haired men at bars for Draco to notice. Omitting the bloody gash on his cheek, Potter’s got a strong jaw and a lovely complexion and the perfect five-o-clock (well, two-in-the-afternoon at the moment) shadow, and those _eyes_ … Draco could possibly stare at him for a very long while, which is why he generally tries to avoid looking at Potter as much as is polite. The temptation is too strong otherwise, as is the slight fear that one day he’ll start staring at Potter and never be able to stop.

“Er, I suppose you’re right. Not that I want to admit it either,” Potter finally responds, toying with one of the muggle trinkets on Granger’s desk. It’s an odd box that only opens up if one hits it in the correct place, which Draco thinks is a bit barbaric but intriguing nonetheless. Potter’s shaking it, as if the box will tell him its secret if he tries hard enough, but the Sickle that’s inside (Draco knows, Granger’s showed him) rattles around uselessly.

“Of course I’m right,” Draco says, but his voice is quiet because the odd look of concentration on Potter’s face has made Draco half-hard and he has no desire to let it show.

“Can I ask you a question?” Potter looks up from the box. Draco assumes Potter wants to know how to open it, so he holds out a hand. After looking confused for a split-second, Potter blinks and levitates it over.

“You have to hit the second notch on the side with the engraving,” Draco explains, doing so. The box pops open, and the Sickle falls out (and Draco hopes he’s not flushing because he’d hoped to look quite a bit more graceful than that).

“Oh. That’s neat,” Potter says, and Draco closes up the box and levitates it back across the room. Potter fiddles with it and gets it to open, the Sickle staying snugly in place (of course). “Thanks. That wasn’t my question, though,” he adds.

“Go on, then,” Draco leans back in his chair.

“Why do you still call her Granger?”

“She’s not gotten married yet, has she?”

“No, but…”

“Then I don’t have any reason to call her differently. It’s like how I’ve always called you Potter.”

Potter scrunches his eyebrows, and Draco immediately decides he likes that. Draco’s cock takes interest too, because now he’s fully hard, and fuck if that isn’t a bit annoying. He hates having to rub one off in the toilets; it’s uncultured.

“But we’re not close, you and I. You and Hermione are partners.”

Draco shrugs. “She calls me Draco, and I call her Granger. It doesn’t mean I don’t like her. Think of it as a nickname if it bothers you that much. And even if you and I became close, I’d still call you Potter. I’ve called you that in my head for a decade and a half and I’m not about to stop—not that I’d expect you and I to become close, anyway.” (Except maybe when he’s in bed late at night and letting his fantasies run wild, but Potter doesn’t need to know that. Ever.)

Potter is subdued for a moment, and Draco tries not to read into it too much. Draco stretches and glances at the clock—Granger’s taking a good while finding the mediwitch, isn’t she? Maybe there’s traffic on the lifts.

“Can I ask you another question?” Potter says.

“Well, you’re going to ask anyway, so what is it?” Draco asks, feeling a little bit exasperated.

“Do you like your job?”

Draco blinks—that’s not a question he’d anticipated at all. “I—yes. I do, in fact.”

“Why?” Potter leans forward, resting his uninjured cheek on his hand. He looks far more interested than Draco would think, since Draco knows for a fact that Potter usually tunes it out when Granger discusses her job in too much detail (because Granger has complained about it. A lot.)

Draco takes a moment to consider it. He knows he loves his job, but he hasn’t had to summon up an explanation as to why in several years. “I like it because I like words. Laws are all about the wording,” he explains. “And I like it because I’m good at it. It takes a lot of studying to get here—you’d know, Granger went through the Law apprenticeship—and it’s fulfilling to be able to use that knowledge every day.”

Harry nods contemplatively. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. My job, that is. I used to feel the same about mine as you feel about yours, but I’m… well, to say I’m tired of it would sound really whiny, wouldn’t it? I’m just… tired, period. I have to drag myself out of bed every morning, and I don’t think I’ve looked forward to going to work since we had the going-away party for one of the secretaries a while back.” He looks glum, and Draco doesn’t think he likes that expression at all.

“Quit, then,” Draco offers simply.

Potter nods, surprisingly enough. “I think I might. I’ve been talking about it with Hermione and Ron recently, and Hermione said that she never really thought I was a good fit for the Aurors in the first place. I just need to find something else to do in the meanwhile so I don’t go barmy after I leave,” he adds wryly.

Draco likes the wry expression quite a bit better, and he’s pleased to have brought it about. “That’s all well and good, Potter, but why are you telling me all this?”

“Hmm?” Potter’s eyebrows raise, and _that’s_ just a bit sexy. It doesn’t take much thought to imagine Potter on his knees, eyebrows raised just like that and Draco’s cock in his mouth—

He needs to stop thinking about Potter’s expressions, because he’s really fucking hard.

He realizes that he’s completely missed Potter’s answer, and he grunts, hoping that it’s an appropriate enough response that Potter won’t think him odd.

A short minute of silence goes by, in which Draco tries and fails to will away his erection.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, and Draco sighs, because talking to Potter means looking at him and looking at him means Draco’s going to stay hard.

“Shouldn’t you be refraining from speaking? I thought you were ill,” Draco grumbles.

“I’m fine as long as I’m sitting down,” Potter smiles at him. “Anyway, it’s just… well… I like your glasses,” he murmurs. He seems embarrassed, and Draco wonders why.

“These?” Draco pulls his reading glasses slightly away from his eyes. “There’s nothing special about them, really.” And there wasn’t—they were simple, functional, wire frames.

“What I mean to say is that I like them on your face. Er… they look good.” Potter swallows. “ _You_ look good.”

Draco is taken aback. Potter’s not… _flirting_ with him, is he? Why on earth would he be? But despite his misgivings, the easiest way to find out if Potter’s flirting with him is to flirt back. So Draco gives him a sly smirk, leans toward the other man, and says “So do you, Potter.”

Potter’s mouth is hanging open.

Definitely flirting, then. And—well, fuck, that’s unexpected, isn’t it? Draco is momentarily stunned, because he’d never thought that something like this would actually happen. He’s been daydreaming about it since Hogwarts, certainly, but they’re the same sort of unattainable fantasies that he has about the really fit Quidditch players (although his Potter fantasies are a lot more frequent than the Quidditch player ones. And longer. And more vivid.)

“That’s, er…” Potter says, and he looks like he’s about to make this awkward. But Draco doesn’t do awkward, can’t stand it, in fact. So he has no choice but to stand up, walk over (“Malfoy? What are you… nngh…!”), and kiss Potter.

Oh fuck oh fuck he’s actually doing this. Kissing. Potter. Oh. Fuck.

His heart is doing this stupid fluttery thing that’s making it really hard to pay attention, and he wants to pay attention because he’s usually rather good at kissing and he can’t be good at kissing if his mind won’t focus. But then Potter makes this little noise from below him, this needy, whining keen, and Draco stops thinking altogether.

They kiss for what could be days, Draco’s tongue between Potter’s lips and his hand buried in the mess that is Potter’s hair. Potter smells just like he remembers from Hogwarts, like the outdoors and warmth and the spice of pumpkin juice. It hits him hard, because he’d never been quite able to recreate Potter’s smell in any of his fantasies and he can barely believe he’s breathing it in now.

The angle is uncomfortable, and who fucking cares if it’s Granger’s chair—Draco pulls himself up and straddles Potter, returning to the kiss with even more ferocity than before. Now that he’s started this he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to stop thinking about it, because even though Potter’s stubble is rough and his lips are chapped, it may very well be the best kiss Draco’s had. Because, well, it’s _Potter_ , isn’t it? It’s like kissing a Quidditch player. But better. Because it’s _Potter._

Okay, he’s not sounding coherent at all, even in his head, so he _really_ needs to stop thinking again. But then Potter slides a hand up his shirt, and Draco’s mind goes into overdrive.

This means Potter wants him, doesn’t it? Or if not exactly him, then Potter’s at least horny, right? Because they could have sex, then. Draco’s been hard for half of their conversation, and oh, sex with Potter would... it’d be really good, he thinks. _Really_ good.

He takes a chance and slides a hand down to Potter’s crotch, pressing his fingers against it through his Auror robes, and Potter is most definitely hard. Thank fucking Merlin. He slides his hand along the outline of Potter’s cock, wondering how big it is, and Harry makes that whining noise again and presses up against him, and—

With a clatter of the knob, the door opens. “I’m sorry I’ve taken so long, the mediwitch was out and I had to chase her through half the Ministry, but she’s here now so—oh.” Granger pauses, staring at Draco and Potter. Draco stares back. “…Well, finally! That took a bit of time, didn’t it? We’ll just be out in the hall, then,” Granger looks smug as she backs herself out of the door.

What was that supposed to mean, anyway? Has she caught him staring at Harry before? How long has she known? Well, this is absolutely mortifying, isn’t it?

“Malfoy,” Potter says, stopping his thoughts in their tracks.

“Nngh?” Draco manages, still caught up in his embarrassment.

“You’ve got blood on your cheek.”

Oh, _gross_ , it’s got to be Potter’s blood, that’s disgusting—and Draco knows he’s making a face, because Potter starts snickering.

“Here, let me…” Potter reaches up and wipes it off with his thumb, then pulls his wand from its holster and Scourgifies Draco’s cheek for good measure. It leaves Draco’s skin feeling tingly, almost as tingly as the way his back had felt with Potter’s hand up against it, and he sighs at having been interrupted in the first place.

“Do you… D’you want to come to mine later? After work?” Potter says, tilting his head. He looks happy and well-kissed, and now that Draco’s close up and paying attention he can see that the gash on Potter’s cheek really isn’t as bad as he’d thought. Just bloody (which is still disgusting. Eugh.)

He realizes that he’s still on Potter’s lap, so he slides off (albeit reluctantly). “Absolutely not,” he steadies himself as he stands, crossing his arms.

Potter scrunches his brow. “I thought…”

Draco presses a finger to Potter’s lips, shushing him (he can do that now that they’ve kissed, and isn’t that delightful? Shushing Potter with just a touch. He could get used to this.) “You’re going to take me to dinner first, you git. You’re going to pick me up at seven, and we’re going to have a lovely date, and _then_ you may take me to your place,” he says, adding a wink for good measure.

Potter blinks up at him, and then a slow, smug smile appears on his face. “And then what?”

“Hmm?” Draco licks his lips, and his cock gives a pointed throb. “And then… and then you’re going to suck me off,” he decides then and there.

Potter’s eyebrows raise (yes, just like that, please), and he crosses his arms, mocking Draco’s stance. “I am, am I?”

“Yes,” Draco smirks. “And then we’re going to fuck, preferably several times. And you’re going to enjoy it just as well as I am.”

Potter’s eyes grow wide, and he nods and grins. “I think I may just take you up on that, Malfoy.”

Heart doing that strange fluttery thing again, Draco gestures toward the door. “Now would you please go let the mediwitch fix you up so that you can stop bleeding all over my office?”

Potter laughs. “Fine, fine,” he gets up, pressing a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth before Draco can stop him. “Seven, yeah?”

Draco nods his agreement, then follows Potter to the door, slipping past him and Granger and the mediwitch as they start to chatter. He’s still hard, and he’s going to need stamina for tonight, he thinks. He may as well get a head start, even if that means taking care of his erection in the loo.


End file.
